


Bodywork

by Aeshna



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 01:50:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aeshna/pseuds/Aeshna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Dressing to impress, Agent MacTaggert? Anyone I know?"</i> A porny interlude with Erik and Moira....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bodywork

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XIII, for the prompts "Erik Lehnsherr/Moira MacTaggert, lace, automobile" I'm usually pretty good at fitting these things into an LJ comment box, but this one was determined to over-run....

The Xaviers, it seems, have expensive tastes in toys.

Moira looks around the converted stable block in mild amazement. The familiar boxy form of the station wagon is there as expected, alongside a grubby pick-up no doubt used by whoever they pay to tend the grounds, but beyond that sits an immaculately polished Bentley, then a '57 Corvette and a half-dozen other forms hidden beneath the grey shrouds of dustsheets. She's willing to bet that none of them are any less impressive or over-powered.

Speaking of which....

She turns to find Erik barely two paces behind her, unable to smother her sound of shock as he catches her shoulder and shoves her up against the dark bulk of the Bentley, crowding into her space before she can even attempt to struggle. There's nowhere to turn, nowhere that she can escape to.... "Fuck."

"That's the plan." A hand pushes up under her skirt and she gasps as he cups her, his broad palm settling over her mound as fingers stroke against satin. His lips quirk into a tight smile. "Dressing to impress, Agent MacTaggert? Anyone I know?"

"None of your damned business," she snarls, but makes no effort to remove his hand. Instead she whimpers and adjusts her stance, letting him feel the damp heat at her crotch. His fingertips trace the lace edges of her panties, a tickle against eager flesh, and she closes her eyes and bites her lip, savouring the sensation even as she wants _more_....

And gets more. He pushes the frills aside and slips two fingers into her, pressing up into slick heat. Moira gives a small cry and grabs his wrist, not knowing if she wants to pull him away or push him deeper. He chuckles darkly and curls his fingers, making her moan. "You want this?"

"Uhn." She blinks up at him, hating him and hating herself and _needing_.... "Dammit, Lehnsherr, you know I do – that's why we're here, isn't it?"

"Hmm." The fingers press deep, then twist. He leans in close, his voice a murmur against her ear. "I think I might need to hear you say it again."

"Just shut the hell up and fuck me!"

"Close enough." He strips her quickly, efficiently, his gaze never leaving hers as the buttons of her blouse give way beneath his fingers. Her skirt drops seemingly of its own volition, the zipper opening with a touch of his power, and then she's standing there in nothing more than black lace underwear and sensible shoes, her hardened nipples straining against cloth. He presses her up against the car and she can feel the heated length of his erection as he gropes at a breast, and _fuck_ but she's wet, so ready, her breath coming in harsh pants as his mouth trails across her throat and –

She gives a cry as she suddenly finds herself spun around and bent over the curves of the big car's hood, her panties hauled down to her knees... and no further. She hisses, trying to squirm free of the fabric, but there's a hand on the back of her neck, pressing her face hard against gleaming black paint, another probing at her slickened flesh....

And then he's in her with a single, brutal stroke, gripping her hip as he pumps into her with short, hard thrusts. Moira bares her teeth and spreads her legs as best she can, hands splayed on the Bentley's dark carapace as she pushes back to meet him. It's fast and savage and _glorious_ , her muscles straining against her restriction, her knees banging against the bodywork, her breasts crushed beneath her, and oh, _oh_ , but she's going to make him pay for this, make him, ah, _fuck_ , every fucking bruise... god, ah, ah, bastard, _bastard_! No, ah, no, yes, _ah!_

She screams as she comes, her climax cramping her trapped thighs as she bucks and thrashes against metal. He pins her in place, covering her, snarling as he rams into her clutching flesh, fast and hard and _wet_ until he buries himself deep and stills, panting in her ear as he pulses and finishes inside her.

"Jesus, Erik," she mutters as he slips free, his weight lifting from her back. She peels herself from the paintwork with an effort, still trembling with aftershocks, then starts as her panties are dragged back up to cover her leaking cunt. "Ah, what the –?"

He turns her to face him, his grey eyes hooded, possessive, as one hand kneads the gusset into her tender flesh. She surprises herself as she gasps and comes again, grinding hard against his fingers until the tremors leave her slumped against him, lacy material sodden against her skin. He chuckles roughly and raises his hand to sniff at his fingers, then wipes them quickly against her flushed cheeks. She opens her mouth to protest – and is silenced as his lips cover hers, the kiss brief and bruising with a hint of teeth. "There," he murmurs, drawing back. "Can't have you dripping all over Charles's antique Persian rugs, can we?"

"You bastard." She staggers slightly, her aching legs reluctant to support her, and glares at him as he tucks himself away. "You – I am going to make you fucking well _pay_ for that, Lehnsherr!"

"Oh, I sincerely hope so." His smile is a little too wide and a lot too pleased. "Same time tomorrow, Agent MacTaggert?"

"Damn right," she snarls, bending with an effort to retrieve her discarded clothing. Tomorrow, she decides, buttoning her blouse as he saunters off, she's going to knock him down and sit on his face, going to knot her hands in his hair and ride his mouth until he begs, until he's sprained his damned tongue on her, until he's kicking and clawing at her for release. And then... well, then she _might_ consider letting him have some fun. Maybe.

Bastard.

Hauling her skirt back into place, Moira takes a few moments to straighten herself up, cataloguing each ache and twinge and nascent bruise as they make themselves known. Her thighs protest every careful step as she leaves the garage in search of a shower and a change of underwear, the wet ruin of her panties an uncomfortable reminder of just how thoroughly she's been taken apart. She _really_ hopes that she doesn't run into one of the others on the way to her bathroom....

Oh yes, she promises herself, she is most _definitely_ going to make him pay for this.


End file.
